


Muscle Memory

by skeilig



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-IT Chapter Two (2019), Richie POV, dialogue and banter heavy, it's just sort of moody and sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 18:11:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20625365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeilig/pseuds/skeilig
Summary: “I saw, uh—” Eddie gestures vaguely behind himself, “—your name, on the marquee. Big shot, huh?”Sometime during the 27 years, Eddie and Richie run into each other in New York.





	Muscle Memory

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve seen chapter 2 twice this week, and, well. I don’t know the rules for the memory thing, but it’s a cool concept, ripe for yearning.

A hand claps his shoulder—too hard—and someone says, “Great show, man.” 

Richie throws a glance behind him and raises his drink, but doesn’t quite meet the guy’s eye. It was not a great show. The crowd was shit, he stumbled over one of his strongest bits, and some attention-seeking asshole toward the back kept shouting things at him. Nights like these, he considers hanging it all up. 

Then there’s another voice behind him. “Uh, Richie?”

Richie turns, ready to tell this guy to fuck off, but then his heart stops. In a second, the face goes from that of a stranger to one he knows better than his own. The din of the bar around him loses focus, sounds murky, underwater. He feels slightly nauseous. The name bubbles to the surface, despite the fact that it’s one he hasn’t thought about in a decade. _Why hasn’t he thought about him?_

“Eddie?”

Eddie smiles in disbelief and steps up to him. Instead of going in for a hug, he holds up his hand and Richie mirrors him. Richie watches as their hands go through the motions of their secret childhood handshake, not sure how either of them remember.

“I saw, uh—” Eddie gestures vaguely behind himself, “—your name, on the marquee. Big shot, huh?”

Richie grins. “Oh, that? That’s nothing. They’ll do that for anyone. Really, if you want your name in lights, let me know. Fuckin’ Eddie Spaghetti. One night only.” He pauses for a moment, scratches the back of his head. “Can I get you a drink, or something?”

Without waiting for an answer, Richie reaches for a bottle of bourbon and a glass behind the bar and pours some before extending it to Eddie.

Eddie grimaces. “No mixer?”

“Didn’t realize this was ladies’ night.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Eddie grumbles, but he smiles as Richie leans over the bar to grapple for the simple syrup and lemon juice. 

“You live in New York?” Richie asks as he stirs the drink with a finger. 

Eddie’s eye might twitch a little at that, but when the drink is handed to him, he takes a sip anyway. “Yeah. Uh, you?”

“No, no. L.A. Here on tour.”

“The show was good. By the way.” It sounds half-hearted and Richie winces. Eddie takes another drink, a long one, and he shudders after he swallows. He seems twitchy, nervous. As far as Richie can remember—and suddenly, he’s remembering _a lot_—that’s nothing out of the ordinary. Eddie keeps lifting his drink to his lips and then lowering it, readjusting his grip. His eyes are darting around the emptying bar, avoiding Richie’s eyes. “It’s—” Eddie begins, and then lets out a frustrated breath. “I saw your name and I… I didn’t _remember_ exactly, but I was… I _had_ to come in for some reason, and I mean, really, I’m supposed to be, well, _not here_ right now, but I blew that off to go to some stand-up show, and I’ve _never_ gone to a comedy show before—”

“Figures,” Richie interjects, despite the growing dread in his chest.

“—but I _had_ to come inside, and when I saw you, I mean, I don’t remember a single thing you said—”

“Appreciate your honesty.” 

“—because everything just came… rushing back. Everything. Every…” 

Eddie looks back up finally and his eyes are wide, and if Richie wasn’t remembering before, he is now. He nods. His mouth feels cottony. “I think I’m going through the same thing.” 

Richie holds up his right hand, palm extended, and again considers the scar that crosses it, a second life-line. But now he remembers its origin. Before he can find any words, Eddie’s index finger is tracing the scar, a faint and ticklish touch. Then Eddie turns his own hand over to reveal a matching mark. 

“This is some freaky shit, huh?” Eddie says with a nervous smile. 

Richie tosses back the rest of his drink and wipes the corner of his mouth on his sleeve. “Let’s get out of here, somewhere we can talk.”

“Um.” Eddie fidgets with his still mostly-full glass for a moment, before Richie takes it off his hands, and throws that one down, too. “Oh.” 

Richie’s hotel room is as good a place to talk as any, so that’s where they end up. Richie sits on the edge of the bed and Eddie in the chair in the corner, both absorbed in their phones, reading snippets of their research out loud to each other. They’re digging through the archives for the Derry newspaper. Each headline, each name, leaves a cold sweat pricking under Richie’s arms.

“There’s even a Wikipedia entry for this,” Eddie murmurs. “Henry Bowers, serial killer, active in Derry, Maine, fall 1988 through summer 1989.”

Richie rolls his eyes. “Like that dumbass could get away with murdering so many people.”

“He didn’t ‘get away with it,’ Rich, he was arrested, remember? He’s in the looney bin. Pled insanity. The trial was a big fucking deal, how do you not remember it?”

Richie holds up his hands defensively. “I didn’t remember _you_ until a couple hours ago, give me a break, Eds.”

Without missing a beat, Eddie snaps, “Don’t call me Eds.” Then he throws his phone onto the carpeted floor, exasperated, and collapses back in his chair. “I can’t look at this shit anymore.”

“Then don’t.” Richie hauls himself up and crouches by the mini fridge beside the dresser. “Drink?”

Eddie snorts. “Is this what you do now? You go on tour and get wasted in depressing hotel rooms?” 

“Is this what you do now? You act like a fucking asshole to people who offer you free booze?” 

Eddie’s mouth twitches into something akin to a smile. “Give me that.” 

Richie tosses him the can of beer and grabs a small bottle of wine for himself. He twists the cap off and takes a swig. “So, man,” he begins, settling back on the bed to lean against the headboard. “How’ve you been?”

Once their drinks are lying empty on the floor, the two end up sprawled side by side on top of the scratchy hotel bedspread. Elbows knock together as they belly-laugh, reminiscing about silly pranks they played on teachers and the few triumphant times they bested a bully.

“Shit, remember when—” Eddie sits up partway to look down at Richie intently, “—when I fell asleep one time and you drew a dick on my arm with a permanent marker?”

Richie furrows his brow. “Not specifically, but that sounds like me.”

“And I tried to scrub it off, but it didn’t work so I just covered it up with more Sharpie, and then my mother thought I was going to get ink poisoning.” 

Richie practically wheezes as he laughs, and Eddie whacks his arm. “Is ink poisoning even a real thing? Sounds like more of your Kaspbrak family bullshit.”

“It is so a real thing! Back then, when we were coming up, they didn’t have these ‘non-toxic’ markers. They didn’t give a shit. My mom took me to the hospital.”

“You were always at the hospital,” Richie says, a fond smile pulling at his mouth. “I hope you had a punchcard or something.”

“No,” Eddie says quietly. “They just gave me, like… lollipops. Stickers.”

Richie remembers other things, too. At thirteen, crouching by the bridge, glancing over his shoulder, stomach fluttering, pocketknife gripped in his hand. At fifteen, playing truth or dare with the rest of the losers, protesting when Bev dared him to kiss Eddie’s cheek, doing it anyway; Eddie wouldn’t meet his eye after. At eighteen, the night before Eddie was to move away, driving around Derry all night together, making plans to visit each other, promising to stay in touch. 

Richie doesn’t mention any of that, but he’s sure Eddie remembers, too.

It’s nearly three in the morning, when the conversation peters out and Richie starts to doze off, hands folded across his chest, rising and falling with deep breaths. The lights are still on, and he’s still dressed in jeans and a blazer, glasses crooked on his nose, but he pinches his eyes shut and ignores all that.

After a few minutes of silence, he hears Eddie rustle next to him, feels the mattress shift. Then: “Shit. Fuck. Rich, I gotta… I gotta go.”

Richie opens one eye to squint up at him. “Go?”

Eddie grips his phone in his hand, frowning at it. He sighs deeply. “Yeah. Hey, give me your number, I’ll text you.” 

Richie rattles off his number, and then rolls onto his side, facing toward Eddie. Through heavy eyelids, he sees Eddie, standing now, hovering by the side of the bed. 

Then Eddie says, “Take your glasses off, at least.”

Richie smiles. They were digging into the side of his nose, uncomfortable. He clumsily grabs them off his face and lets them lay on the bed next to him, before turning to nestle into the pillow. “Night, Eds.”

“I’ll, uh, see myself out, then,” Eddie says. “Goodnight… Richie.”

The light turns out a few seconds later, and the door opens and shuts. Richie’s asleep before he can process anything else.

When he wakes up, Richie first registers the haze of a hangover, gnawing at the edges of his vision. Rolling over, he grapples for his phone, to check the time. Too early still, he can never sleep in anymore. He has one text from a number he hasn’t saved. The message reads: _It’s Eddie._

For a moment, he stares at the notification, trying to remember if he gave his number to anyone last night, if he met anyone named Eddie recently. But that’s not helping with the headache, so he gives it up. 

Hauling himself out of bed, he goes to take a shower. He has a flight to catch in a few hours.

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe a bit of a bummer but… yeah. First time trying to write for these guys, drop a comment to let me know what you thought :D


End file.
